Conspiracy

113

“The senator is in LA, not Albany,” the secretary told Chief Ball. “I’m sorry.”

“Give me that number then.”

“I’m afraid—”

“Just give me the general number for the campaign there.

No, wait,” said Ball. “Give me Jimmy Fingers’ cell phone.”

“Mr. Fahey does not give out his cell phone number.”

“Baloney. Every stinkin’ politician on the East Coast has it.”

“Sir, if you care to leave a number, I’m sure that Mr. Fahey will call you back when they return east.”

“That’s too long to wait.” Ball turned around from the phone, glancing down the long, narrow barroom. He was being paranoid, he knew, but he was afraid someone was tracing the call and would send the police here any moment.

Ridiculous.

But if it did happen, what would he do?

“That’s the best I can do,” said the secretary. “It’s almost five and we’re on our way out. Do you want to leave your name and a message or not?”

“Not,” said Ball. He hung up, then got the number for the LA campaign office from information. When he called it, he tried a different tack.

“This is Christopher Ball. I do security for the senator back east in New York. I need to talk to either him or James Fahey. If Jimmy’s around, he’d be fine. I’m not sure where they are and I happen to be in the field at the moment, without my Rolodex. Can you get me in touch with them?”

The volunteer who’d answered put Ball on hold. He came back in a few minutes with Jimmy Fingers’ cell phone number.

Ball punched it in quickly, afraid that he would forget it.

Waiting for the number to connect, he glanced down at the silver coiled wire holding the receiver to the phone. It reminded him of the wire he’d used to kill Rauci.

“This is Jimmy. Who is this?”

“Jimmy, this is Christopher Ball.”

“Chris

Ball — hello, Chief,” said Jimmy Fingers. His voice boomed over the phone. “What can we do for you?”

“I have to talk to the senator about something.”

“Gee, that’s going to be rough today, Chief. Problem is, these damn campaign people have him double-booked, wall-to-wall, the whole time we’re out here. Dumbest thing I’ve ever seen, but that’s national politics, I guess. They don’t do it like we do it at home.”

Ball recognized the aw-shucks tactic; it was standard operating procedure when Jimmy Fingers didn’t want McSweeney to talk to someone.

“Listen, Jimmy, I need to talk to him. It’s about a personal matter that involves both of us.”

“Well, listen, Chief, you tell me and I’ll pass it along.”

“No. I want to talk to him.”

“A lot of people want to talk to him right now.” Jimmy Fingers’ voice was starting to get an edge. “Let me help you out.”

“This is personal, damn it.” Ball felt the back of his neck getting hot.

“You have something I can deal with, you let me know,” answered Jimmy Fingers. The phone went dead.

“You can’t hang up on me. Jimmy. Jimmy!” But Jimmy Fingers had hung up. Ball’s anger wrenched out of control, his body wet with it. He slammed the phone back onto the receiver and slapped open the door to the phone booth.

There were only two other people in the bar besides the bartender; both were looking in the other direction, doing their best to avoid Ball’s gaze. He made his hands into fists and rubbed his fingers with his thumbs, trying to control his emotions. He walked to the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat down.

“Just a Budweiser, please,” he said softly.

The bartender came right over with it. Ball slid a five-dollar bill onto the bar, then took a long sip from the beer.

He felt as if the ground beneath him had given way. He couldn’t stop himself from falling.

“Bad day?” asked the bartender gently.

“Bad lifetime,” snapped Ball, taking a sip of his beer. He couldn’t quite understand why all of this was happening. A few months ago he’d been completely in control, never thinking at all about Vietnam, about the money, his days selling drugs as John Hart, his life before all that. Now it was all he thought about.

He shouldn’t have killed Rauci. She wasn’t that smart.

Maybe not, but sooner or later she would have figured it out. Sooner or later someone was going to go back far enough, back beyond Vietnam, and find out who he really was. A DNA test would do it. And then everything would unravel.

Ball’s fingers were trembling.

Could you lose everything like that, in a flash, by one wrong decision?

It wasn’t even a question. Here he was, falling.

Ball took another sip of beer.

McSweeney had clearly decided to cut him off. Jimmy Fingers wouldn’t dare to do that on his own. Ball thought back to the last time he’d spoken to the senator, to his one-time captain.

“We have to do something about Gordon.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm.”

Mmmm-hmmmm… that was all McSweeney had said.

Ball knew exactly what it meant, but no one else would.

Pretty clever. Maybe McSweeney had set the whole thing in motion.

Of course he had. Ball and Gordon were the only connection to McSweeney and the money. Now it was just him.

His word against a senator’s — against a man who would be President of the United States? Who would people believe?

Especially if they found out about Rauci. Who would trust the word of a murderer?

Ball stared at the pockmarks in the copper-topped bar.

McSweeney was a genius. He’d set the whole thing up beautifully. Twice — once at the start, and now.

If it hadn’t been for him, Ball’s life would have been perfect. He could have come home as the man he was, Robert Tolong — Marine Sergeant Robert Tolong. A good, solid record, killing enemy guerillas who had to be killed.

“An audacious record.”

McSweeney had said that, the first time he broached the idea.

“An audacious record, and yet you have nothing to show for it. You deserve more.”

If it hadn’t been for that conversation, Robert Tolong would have rotated home in a few weeks. He would have knocked around for a month, maybe two, then gone into the state troopers, like he planned. Become a police chief in Georgia, just like in New York, but without ever having to look over his shoulder.

McSweeney had stolen that from Tolong. And now the son of a bitch was going to be President of the United States.

“You OK?” asked the bartender.

“I’m getting there.” Ball forced a smile. “What are you gonna do, right?”

“Laid off?”

“Nah, nothing like that. Friend screwed me, that’s all.”

“Over a woman?”

“A woman was involved.”

“Bitch.”

“I don’t really feel like talking,” said Ball sharply.

The bartender backed away. Ball tried to smile apologetically, but it was a halfhearted attempt. He picked up his beer, his hands trembling even more than before.

He was falling down a hole. He’d felt like this before, in Nam, when he’d killed the real Christopher Ball, the man whose identity he’d adopted, abandoned, and then adopted again.

God, he’d forgotten that. Buried it. He saw Ball’s face again, the stunned look in his eyes.

Like Amanda Rauci’s.

He’d almost killed himself that night. That was the way he felt now.

“It’s all right, Sarge. I owed you one for that time you got the gook on the highway, remember?” Ball turned to his right. The real Ball sat next to him on the stool, dressed in his class A uniform. He smelled of Old Spice aftershave.

“You had to kill me, too.”

Amanda Rauci was on his left.

Ball turned around. The entire bar was filled with the people he’d killed — gooks, drug dealers, the federales. They were all in their best clothes, as if attending a wedding or a reception.

Or a funeral.

I’m in hell, Ball realized. McSweeney put me here.

The bastard is going to pay.

“I think you already paid,” said the bartender. He pointed at the beer glass, now three-quarters empty. “You need a refill?”

“I gotta go,” said Ball, getting up from the stool and forc-ing himself to walk through the crowd of well-dressed ghosts.